


Something Stupid

by afewreelthoughts



Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: 1920s, Boxing & Fisticuffs, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-28
Updated: 2014-01-03
Packaged: 2018-01-02 21:38:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,524
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1061936
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/afewreelthoughts/pseuds/afewreelthoughts
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On a cold November in 1922, when Jimmy Kent goes to extremes to prove his manhood, two other lonely souls take notice.  Acts of courage ensue.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Just Around the Corner

“You’ll do nothin’ to help ‘im, nothin’ at all?”

Thomas smirked at Daisy the way he used to when she was in love with him and he ruled the servants’ hall, and he blew a cloud of white smoke between them. “Now why should I care what Jimmy does?” he said through the fog.

Daisy’s heart fell into her stomach. “Because yer the only one he listens to,” she begged.

“You’re wrong, Daisy. He talks to me, sure he does, but Mister Jimmy Kent listens to no one.”

“You won’t even try?”

“And what exactly would I be tryin’ to do, Daisy? Talk him out of the one thing that’s made him happy since I came home?” He spread his arms and legs, filling the rocking chair he sat in and drew on his cigarette.

The smoke once more made Thomas a into blur. Daisy had hated the sight of smoke since William died. The boys who came home, including Thomas - when he was Corporal Barrow and she despised him - spoke in hushed whispers about gas, as if it were a creature of nightmare with a mind of its own. Caught in another cloud of his making, Daisy raised her voice, like Thomas was a hundred miles away. “Fine then! He’ll get ‘imself killed and it’ll all be your fault!”

Thomas’s face emerged again, smug and self-satisfied. “The thing you don’t know about Jimmy Kent is that he takes care of himself. He’ll stop halfway to the pub and come back here safe and sound. Might even tell us he beat the other man to bleedin’ pulp and spared his life on a whim. He’ll be fine.”

Daisy’s hands had turned into fists. Her small body, unaccustomed as it was to so much anger, could not hold it all, and one of her hands darted out and knocked Thomas’s cigarette to the ground. Startled by what she had done, she ran from the servants’ hall before Thomas could ask what was going on, because if he did, she was sure she had no answer. She had only one thing to say: Jimmy Kent had ruined everything.

Safely in her room upstairs, she opened the suitcase on her bed, the one that now contained all her earthly belongings: a half dozen dresses, two aprons, and a collection of sentimental tokens that seemed now, in the haze of her anger, to have no value, but which she took because they were hers.

She tucked her final paycheck amongst her most delicate clothing. After ten years at Downton, her life fit in a single suitcase. Yesterday the thought had pleased her.

But tonight Jimmy Kent was going to get himself beaten to a pulp to impress some village idiots and at the last minute, Thomas would likely get himself beaten up too, and do no one no good. And she had done her best to help him, but she’d leave Downton not a triumphant heiress, but a careless little girl. Jimmy had ruined her final evening at Downton, and she hated him for it.

Only Mrs. Patmore knew that Daisy planned to leave Downton, and if she left tomorrow morning as she now planned, no one else would know until she was far away. She loved Downton more than words could say, but the place was now too haunted with memories of failure. As long as Mrs. Patmore was around, her work would not change. And best of all, she liked Mr. Mason and the thought of working on his farm, a place that she would inherit from someone who loved her like a daughter, made her smile.

She had planned on telling everyone that night, reminding them of her good fortune, and, possibly, receiving good wishes. But then Jimmy Kent came home from his half-day, beaming bright. He had clearly thrown on his livery in a rush, and his mussed blond hair fell into his eyes. He leaned back lazily on the counter.

“Who wants to guess where I’ve been?”

“No one, if I’m any good at guessin’. Now move,” Mrs. Patmore shooed him out of her way as she collected the final items for the servants’ tea and placed them on the table. He sauntered over to the table where the rest of the staff sat, smiling wickedly.

"Well, if you’d guessed I’d been in town, you’d be right." He put his hands on the back of his chair. "Talking to a man who said I was - that we all were - spoiled up here, that none of us understood what it was like to live a real working-class life. And well, I just couldn’t let that stand!"

"You just couldn’t, could you?" Bates muttered and drank his tea.

“So the man I was talking to said he’d drop it - if I could best him in an honest fight.”

"You told him to mind his own business, didn’t you?" Anna asked, a warning in her voice.

"Course I didn’t! He said I was nothin’ more than a little girl if I refused, so tonight I’m meeting him at the local pub… and we’ll see who’s the bigger man."

“Challengin’ folk to fights now, are we?” Mrs. Patmore chuckled.

“He insulted me, Mrs. Patmore! Was I supposed to take it lying down?” Daisy noticed that Ivy seemed suddenly intent on the magazine she was holding. “ ‘N it’s a proper boxing match, with rules and no funny business.”

He then posed with his fists up and his lips pouting, like they had all come to take his photograph.

“A boxing match?!” Anna put down her teacup.

"Well, I never! " Mrs. Patmore shrieked.

"You careless, silly boy!" Bates yelled.

Daisy covered her ears, because they had all shouted at once, and everyone not shouting was looking at Jimmy in shock, their eyes wide and their jaws dropped. Except Thomas, who sat eating a scone, perfectly contented and completely unperturbed.

“What do you think, Barrow?” Jimmy grinned, posing again.

“I think you look like quite the man,” Thomas said flatly and continued eating. Daisy wasn’t convinced of his words, and neither was Jimmy, whose face had fallen.

“You sound amused,” said Ivy, from behind her magazine.

“Do I? Well, I’m not. Jimmy’s gonna show us all what a man he is by beatin’ another man to a bloody pulp. What’s not to love?”

"He will do no such thing!" Mrs. Hughes stood.

“But I will, won’t I?” Jimmy said, striking the air again.

“How much bigger than you is he, James?” Anna’s question fell on deaf ears as Jimmy struck pose after pose, and Thomas only smeared butter on another scone.

Daisy couldn’t dream what ridiculous things Jimmy would have done to get Thomas’ attention when Carson suddenly towered over him. He had risen silently amongst the commotion and came to stand behind Jimmy, simply waiting. Daisy thought he had never looked larger or more frightening.

“Mr. Kent?”

Jimmy dropped his fists.

“If you want to play the boxer, you’ll do it _after_ dinner when your duties are _over_ and when you will _not_ , if I may make it absolutely _crystal-clear_ , be fighting any of the men in the village tonight or any night while you are in my employ. Going would make trouble for everyone here, and I will not have it. _Do I make myself clear?_ ”

“Yes, sir,” Jimmy had shrank under Carson’s angled, angry eyebrows, visibly sobered.

And that had been the end of that until Daisy, last to go to sleep, made her final rounds turning off the electric lights, and halted when she saw a figure outside in the dark. She held her breath until a change in the light or the angle of his body revealed the loneliest face she had ever seen. Jimmy stood in the light outside, bundled tight in his best suit and warmest coat. His hands were deep in his pockets, his trembling lips making smoke in the cold. He looked like a tortured character in a moving picture, shifting in the backyard shadows. He took a deep breath, shook himself, and started to walk towards town.

Daisy stood in silence, watching him until he faded from sight, but still she could not shake the image of his lonely face from her mind.

Which is why she had turned out the light in the servants’ hall without looking inside.

“I can’t see in the dark, Daisy.”

“Sorry,” she’d muttered to Thomas and flicked the lights on again. Daisy lit a candle and started walking towards the stairs. She had wanted nothing more than to curl up on her bed and cry herself to sleep, wake at dawn, and get on the train that would carry her away from here forever, but Jimmy’s face still haunted her and her stomach sank. She was arrested with a sudden feeling that if anything happened to Jimmy, it would be her fault for saying nothing.

She tried to tell herself Jimmy’s silliness couldn’t be her fault, but it had to be someone’s fault… so she talked to Thomas, so it could be his.

She closed the suitcase and tied the straps around it tight.

She had done all she could. It was not her fault if Thomas didn’t care. Thomas was Jimmy’s friend. Thomas could play the hero, or Thomas could play the villain, as if she bloody cared.

She pressed her nose to the frosted window. The moon was big tonight, but so were the clouds, and the light outside rose and fell as the clouds drifted by. She wondered how cold it would be on Mr. Mason’s farm, whether he kept a big fire burning in a big room where they would sit and talk at night. The thought made her smile until the moon came out from the clouds and lit up the abbey, and she felt a lump rise in her throat. Now that it came to it, she didn’t want to start crying about leaving this place, because she knew that she might never stop. She loved Downton. She gazed out over the treetops and the turrets, but a movement on the gravel path caught her eye. At first she thought the figure running towards town was Jimmy, but then she saw black hair in the moonlight. She threw on her coat and followed Thomas into the night.


	2. I Wish It'd Get a Move On

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jimmy fights for the honor of Downton. It's not what he imagined.

Jimmy Kent was glad no one from Downton had come to the fight. They wouldn’t understand it, really, and he was a royal arse for thinking they ever could. It brought a smile to his face to imagine Carson, Barrow, or Bates in this crowded room behind the local pub that smelled of warm beer and stale sweat – not to mention any of the women! (Actually, when he thought of it, the image of Bates fit rather well, sulking in a dark corner, thoroughly disapproving of what he saw, but doing absolutely nothing to stop it.)

Jimmy shrugged off his coat and handed it to one of the men standing near him, pressed against the ropes. The village men had set off a proper boxing ring with wooden posts and rope before he arrived. Inside the ring stood Jimmy, his opponent, and a man in a black bowler hat whom he guessed was the referee. He didn’t want to look a fool by asking. Outside the ropes, a crowd had gathered and the men, all working men from the village, pressed close to the ropes, making the room look small, and the nearly empty ring of rope vastly larger than the room itself. A man on his side handed him a pair of bulbous brown gloves, _just like the ones real prizefighters use_ , he thought, as he turned them over in his hands.

A secret part of him had hoped that Barrow, at least, would understand what this all was about. He knew what it was to fight to prove yourself, to have worthless strangers and pompous grey-haired elders tell you how little your life meant, to strain against their belittling words. Barrow should have known. And Barrow should have come tonight.

But all he did was smirk up at Jimmy, so damn indulgent, like Jimmy was a stupid little boy. He oughta see Jimmy now, about to face off in a proper fight with a man twice his size. Well, perhaps not quite twice his size, but his opponent, a rough, square-faced man, had muscles that stretched the fabric of his undershirt. Jimmy handed the boxing gloves to a bystander and started unbuttoning his clothes with shaking fingers. Of course prizefighters fought in their undershirts. He must have looked a proper fool standing around in his waistcoat and shirtsleeves, waiting for it all to begin.

Peeling off layers of clothing revealed toned muscles, and the audience around him “Oooo”ed, like they’d all thought him skin and bones. That’d teach them to judge him for working in a fine house and wearing a footman’s livery.

Some of the eyes on his body also betrayed the sort of drunken lust that these men ruthlessly mocked in others during daylight hours, but swimming in drink, what they hated and what they were became one and the same.

He should have posed in his undershirt for Barrow – that would have got his attention for sure. Then Jimmy would have taken the cigarette Barrow would surely be smoking and put it between his own lips, letting it dangle from his mouth carelessly. Barrow would have swooned on the spot.

Jimmy’s chest swelled at the thought, and he took back the gloves. He resisted the urge to wink in the direction of the closest man ogling him. The staff up at Downton, especially Mr. Barrow, knew Jimmy flirted with everyone, and those gestures meant nothing; but the men here might beat him without rules or propriety if he so much as smiled at one of them at the wrong angle. _He’s the one who can’t take his eyes off my arse_ , Jimmy thought, clenching his fists inside the gloves.

“Soon ’s both parties are ready...” said a man in a black bowler hat with his hands full of bills and loose papers – bets, Jimmy knew. He wondered how many were for him.

“Three minute rounds,” Jimmy murmured to himself like a prayer, “with one minute breaks between them. Six rounds. Lose a round if you touch the ground longer n’ ten seconds,” _Six rounds..._ he felt his stomach drop as his opponent punched his gloves together and grinned at the men on his side of the room. “Strikes only count on the torso n’ the arms. No strikes to the head, nothin’ below the belt.”

The man across the way nodded at the referee, then he fixed Jimmy with a smouldering glare that had nothing to do with sex, and everything to do with desire. Desire to see him black and blue and sobbing like a child. Jimmy saw himself reflected in those murky blue eyes, and he looked small and scared. His joints felt cold and stiff, his hands heavy and awkward in the gloves.

Jimmy closed his eyes and brought back the thought of Thomas – of Mr. Barrow – swooning. _He thinks I’m important,_ Jimmy reassured himself. Sure, it didn’t seem like it that afternoon, but on every other day, he treated Jimmy like he meant... more than Jimmy was comfortable thinking, but now those thoughts made him swell with confidence. _He’d bet on me._ Jimmy nodded. “Ready.”

His opponent lifted up his gloves, and the referee blew a whistle. In that moment, Jimmy’s confidence deserted him, the breath left his body, and he wanted to run. Holding his gloves up to cover his chest, he looked around. The crowd pressed close around the ring. Jimmy couldn’t see an inch of space between any of them. The smoke from their cigarettes and the stench of spilled beer gathered in a haze around the ring. There was no running now. The first strike hit Jimmy in the belly. He staggered backwards, gasping for breath. The next caught him on the shoulder. He span and grabbed hold of one of the wooden posts, as best as a man could with bulbous hands meant for striking and not for holding on.

 _Idiot,_ he told himself. _Pay attention. You don’t want to run, and you won’t run. Now you’re gonna look this man in the eyes and beat him for beating you, ya hear?_

But when Jimmy turned and struck the other man, his opponent blocked it effortlessly. And punching him hurt. Despite the thick gloves they wore, Jimmy’s fist felt sore. He’d thought hitting another man would feel good. It didn’t, but he struck again. And was blocked. Again. And again. And again.

Jimmy felt a drop of sweat run down his cheek. _How damn long can three minutes be?_ It wasn’t his job to count the time, but Jimmy thought the man whose job it was must be counting wrong.

When the whistle blew, he leaned on the ropes and caught his breath. The crowd pressed close to him, whispering and yelling instructions he didn’t hear. He looked up when one of them yelled too close to his ear for comfort, and when he did, he saw a ripple in the back of the crowd. Two of the villagers parted, framing Thomas and Daisy like a painting, before they erased the picture. “Barrow? Mr. Barrow!”

The whistle blew again, and Jimmy’s mind cleared. He hated to be a coward among strangers, but for people he knew so well to see it...

He threw himself to the center of the ring – which was really a rectangle, and calling it a ring was stupid, Jimmy thought – and he held his head high. Now everything seemed clearer, and his opponent slow and heavy. Jimmy feigned with one arm, and threw a punch with his left, catching the other man in the ribs. He retaliated in kind, but Jimmy was ready for it, bracing his legs wide apart. He struck back. For minutes, each man answered blow for blow, and Jimmy thrilled that Thomas was there to see it. By the time the whistle blew, Jimmy was beaming, but he hadn’t registered any pain. Now that they’d stopped fighting, he hurt everywhere.

“Jimmy! Jimmy, are ya all right?”

“Daisy...” she came into focus before his eyes, pressed against the ropes.

“What are ya doing here? Where’s Thomas?”

“Are ya all right?”

“Do I fucking look all right, Daisy?”

“Don’t yell at me. I’m here to help.”

“How?” he whispered, and for the first time, his voice was soft. He wanted to squeeze her hand, but his were stuck in the monstrous gloves.

“If you wanna leave...” As she spoke, Thomas pushed his way to the front of the crowd to stand next to her. “You should leave, Jimmy.”

“Should I?” With these two faces close to his own, with so much worry in their eyes, he felt like a right idiot for coming here at all. “I’m beaten, aren’t I?” He tried to laugh, only to find that that, too, hurt. “If I ran now... I'd be a coward... Should I?”

“I can’t tell you that, Jimmy,” Thomas said with eyes so full of love that Jimmy forgot his pain for a moment. He felt like he could battle a dozen village giants to have Thomas look at him this way, but if what Thomas were saying was true, Jimmy didn’t need to.

“What would you do?” Jimmy asked.

The whistle blew.

“Me?” Thomas blushed and looked at his shoes. _Oh, dammit, this isn’t the time, Barrow! Stuff your sentimentality and tell me –_ “I’d run.”

The whistle blew again, but Jimmy still clung to the ropes. “You wouldn’t think less of me if I did?”

“We’d think better of you, silly.” Daisy took his right arm.

“Where you goin’?” A stronger, dirtier hand took hold of his left and dragged him backwards.

“I bet good money on you...”

“Ya rest is over!”

“Barrow... Thomas, please!” Jimmy reached out to his friends, but someone else grabbed his right arm. Jimmy never saw these men clearly, but every time he recalled this story, for his own benefit or another's, he never blamed them. They spun Jimmy to face his opponent, who knocked the air from his lungs. The second blow took him off his feet. He fell hard in the dirt and his head struck one of the wooden posts with a sick thud.

Jimmy ached everywhere, and he wondered if he'd ever move again. Voices screamed at him to get up, get up and finish the fight, get up or he had lost. He threw his arms over his head, but that didn’t shut them out. When the referee began to count, the crowd joined in his chant. “ONE... TWO... THREE...”

When they counted to four, Jimmy began to cry.

He cried because he hurt from head to toe. He cried because he had lost, truly lost. He had fought a proper fight, and he had lost.

And he cried because he was a fool for fighting, and he cried because he was a failure for losing.

And he cried because he didn’t even have the dignity of failing on his ownsome. All these nameless men had seen him fall. And now Daisy. And Thomas, too.

His chest hurt with heaving, so he cried louder.

But most of all he cried because he would have to meet the eyes of all who looked at him and called him a man and know inside that they were wrong.

Jimmy’s vision began to blur, and the crowd’s screams blended with its laughter. He saw someone small duck under the ropes, and he felt strong arms wrap around him. He pulled away from them and tried to push himself from the ground. He could pick himself up, if nothing else. His arms gave way, his head struck the post again, and the room went black.


	3. Or I Might Do Something Stupid

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There’s more than one kind of courage, Jimmy learns as he recovers from his wounds at Dr. Clarkson’s, and some things worth fighting for.

Jimmy Kent dreamed of flying.

When he flew, he didn't look down at the world below; instead he was stretched on his back, regarding the stars.  He felt absolutely weightless and wondered if he’d died and this was heaven.  He reached out and ran his fingertips through the clouds by his side.  They swirled like water around his hand and felt like nothing.  He could stay like this forever, drifting alone, with no guilt and nothing to prove to the night sky.  He stretched out further, and his fingers traced patterns in the stars.

From below came an infernal racket, like someone was knocking on wood, wanting to be admitted to Jimmy’s dream.  He recoiled from the noise, and his weightless, timeless drifting ended when his head came up hard against a cloud.  He wondered how a cloud could be solid – soft, but solid... and then it occurred to him that he must be dreaming, and it was a bloody shame because flying had been a lovely dream and he might never have it again.  That horrid knocking sounded again, and he buried his head in the solid thing-that-wasn’t-a-cloud.  It smelled good.

Jimmy’s eyelids drifted open when the knocking started again, like lead they were... but lifting them was worthwhile, for he was greeted by the sight of Dr. Clarkson in nothing but his nightshirt.  The doctor looked grumpy and angry, and it was hilarious.  Jimmy memorized every detail to tell Thomas later.  He’d laugh at the story, surely, and grin from ear to ear.

Clarkson's nightshirt reached to the middle of his hairy calves.  Below it, he wore thick, wooly red socks and no shoes.  Above his disheveled moustache (Jimmy hadn't known moustaches could be disheveled.), he was even wearing one of those long, conical nightcaps, like he was a character in Dickens and they were the spirits of Christmas past and present... and future, of course.  Of course future.  Thomas was carrying Jimmy, of course.  People don’t fly.

“What’s this, Daisy?  Everything all right?”  Clarkson rubbed his eyes.

“It’s Jimmy, sir.  ‘E’s gone and got ‘imself beaten.”

Clarkson, still grouchy, still disheveled, approached where Thomas held Jimmy across his arms.  Jimmy buried his head in Thomas's chest and hoped Clarkson would say he didn't need a doctor's help.  He'd been through enough that night.  “I don’t need a doctor,” Jimmy muttered and looked up at Thomas for approval. “I don’t – pthew!” he spat something into his hand.  It was small, white, and covered in blood.

Clarkson’s eyes widened. “Take him inside.  The guest room is the second door on the left.”

The next hour went by in a blur as Clarkson and Thomas, and, at times, Daisy, opened Jimmy's clothes, cleaned his cuts and bruises, smeared him with odd-smelling lotions, and measured lengths of white cotton thin as clouds that they used to bind his blood.

All in all, the pain was nothing compared to the fight, but Jimmy found himself looking away from the proceedings the entire time.  Instead of watching the people flocking around him, he looked at the wallpaper.  The room was covered in patterns of dainty flowers – a recent fashion, Jimmy knew, but despite that fact, he could not imagine Dr. Clarkson ever sleeping in a room like this.  It looked like it had been made for a beloved woman – a wife or a daughter – and kept clean out of belief that she would find this room someday and thank him for keeping it ready for her.

But then Dr. Clarkson took out a needle and thread and looked so harsh and angry that Jimmy had a hard time imagining him loving or waiting for anyone.  _He's not like Thomas,_ Jimmy thought, glancing over at his friend for a moment.   _And it’s just a fucking guest room._ Clarkson touched the needle to one of Jimmy's wounds, and he swooned.

Jimmy had no idea how long he slept, but when he woke, he thought he saw clouds drifting above him, and wanted to reach up, but felt too weary to do so. He remembered that he was in the guest room of Dr. Clarkson’s place, treated for wounds he received fighting in the village.  Daisy and Thomas had taken him here.  And now he was alone.  Alone.  The word frightened him.

“Daishy...  Cackshon... Thomush?”

“Yes, Jimmy?” Thomas was sitting in a small chair on the far side of the room.  He was wearing his grey suit, Jimmy noticed, the one he had worn when he’d taken a beating for Jimmy over a year ago.  It suited him well.  He wasn't wearing a jacket and had rolled his white sleeves up to the elbow.  His necktie and waistcoat were mussed, and his hair hung in front of his eyes.  He held his hat, wrinkling the brim in a tight grip.  The glove on his left hand was stained with blood.

Looking at Thomas so long, Jimmy forgot why he had needed so badly to find another human being, so instead he said, “Why am I tacking yack dish?”

“You lost a tooth. Remember?”

“Oh... Yesh, I guesh.”

“Well, Dr. Clarkson filled the hole with cotton gauze.”   Thomas fiddled with his hat.  “They asked someone to stay with you, and Daisy had business at the House.  I hope you don’t mind.”

“Mind?”

“Mind...” Thomas made a purposeful gesture with his hand, moving it in a circle as though Jimmy knew where it was going.

“Mind what?”

“...me?”

Jimmy tried to shrug to show how little he cared that was alone with Thomas, but the action hurt, and he groaned.  He hadn’t meant for the noise to sound so wanton.  “I don mind,” he said as clearly as he could, sighed, and settled into the pillows. “I wash shtupid, washn’t I, Thomush?”

Jimmy shifted on the pillows so that he could see Thomas’s face, waiting for his reaction.  The adoring look in Thomas’s eyes told him that he wouldn’t be able to say anything unkind about himself without Thomas contradicting it.  Yet Jimmy wasn’t sure he wanted anything but the truth anymore.

 “Don’t you shink... dat I wash shtupid?”

“No,” Thomas said.  There it was.  Lie or not, it felt good to hear. “I don’t think you were smart, either.”  Jimmy rolled his eyes.  There was no need to state the obvious.  Thomas’s voice sounded much better giving Jimmy compliments or cutting down witless interlopers in their conversations up at Downton.  “What do you think?” Thomas said, catching Jimmy mid-eye-roll.

Jimmy wrinkled his nose.  This wasn’t fair.  He was the one asking the questions, and it was Thomas's job as his friend to provide him with answers.  “I wash ashking you.”

“What I think doesn’t matter, Jimmy.”  Thomas stood and started to walk towards the bed.  Jimmy found himself looking at the dark hairs on his arms.  They swept across his strong muscles and looked like they'd be soft to the touch.

Thomas sat on the edge of the flowered quilt, far from Jimmy.  Jimmy's breath caught in his lungs.  Thomas must not have noticed, because he leaned closer.  “Jimmy Kent,” he said, as if he enjoyed saying those words more than any others. “I could say you’d hung the moon and the stars.”  There was a shining look in Thomas's eyes, as if he meant every word.

"You mean dat?"

Thomas smiled at him.

“Then shay it,” Jimmy whispered.

“Not today.”

“Why noh?”

“Because I could say all those things and more, Jimmy, but if you don’t believe them, they’re not worth a thing.”  He looked at Jimmy, simply looked, but Jimmy felt as if his eyes were boring holes into him, baring mysterious facts even Jimmy didn’t know about himself.  “Do you think you were stupid?  Brave?  Both?”

Jimmy wanted to yell, _What the fuck am I supposed to say to that, Thomas?_ but he knew it would come out as _What de fuh am I shuposed to shay to dat, Thomush?_ And he didn’t think his pride could handle it. This mouth full of rags better be doing him a world of good.

Thomas looked down at his hands when Jimmy didn’t respond.  “Have I ever told you how I got me blighty?”  Jimmy shook his head.

“I was... I told you I was in the war... medical corps.”  Jimmy nodded.  “I volunteered to get out of the fighting... didn’t realize that the medical corps would stick me on the Front for...” he took a deep breath. “...for as long as it did.  One night... I...” Thomas’s voice caught and broke over his words, and Jimmy wanted to reach out to him, but he knew Thomas would retreat if he did.  So he sat still and silently, drinking in Thomas’s every word, knowing all he had to do was listen.

“...One night I heard that I might get a transfer home, to work with Dr. Cl-Clarkson.  So I went out to a corner of... the... trenches where there was no one.”  Thomas’s lips shook.  “I flicked my lighter on and lifted up my h-hand.”

Thomas nodded to Jimmy, who nodded back, understanding perfectly.  Thomas pulled the bloody leather glove from his hand and held it up for Jimmy to see.  Its palm held had craters and scars and ridges rough as Nomansland.

Thomas took a deep breath.  “Do you think I was a coward?”

Jimmy closed his eyes, but he could not banish the image of a bullet splintering Thomas's hand like a piece of wood, blood flying everywhere.  Jimmy took that hand in his own, and Thomas let him.  Jimmy ran his fingers over every ridge of every scar.  Jimmy felt himself close to tears and found breathing difficult, but he wasn't afraid anymore.  He pressed a kiss to Thomas's knuckles.  “Thomush, can I take dish cotton fwom my mouf?”

“Dr. Clarkson wouldn’t like it...” Thomas pulled his hand away, looking at Jimmy as though he were turning a particularly odd shade of green.

“I have shumshing impotant to shay!”

“Well, for a minute, I’m sure...”

Jimmy pulled wad after wad of bloody cloth from his mouth, and met Thomas's grey eyes.

“I... like you, Thomas.”

“I like you, too, Jimmy.”  So calm, so suave.

“And I’m sorry.  So, so sorry...”

“Listen to me: you have nothing to be sorry for, Jimmy.  Nothing at all.  I listened to O’Brien and not to you, and that was my fault, you hear me."

Jimmy felt like his insides were boiling, listening to Thomas go on like this, like Jimmy were some fucking saint.

“But I do.  I have something to be sorry for.”  Blood dripped from his mouth, but Jimmy didn’t wipe it away.  “I do.”

"Jimmy, you had no idea how I saw your actions - "

"Yes I did!" he yelled.

Thomas's eyes widened and his jaw dropped.  "You did.  Why?"

“Because I'm like you _,"_ Jimmy spat.  Blood sprayed like snow across the flowery covers.  A spot fell on Thomas’s sleeve.

After a long silence, Thomas asked. “How long have you known?”

“For a while.  I mean, I like girls – always have.  But that’s just the problem.  I like them.  That’s all.  Nothing more."

"Like you like me?"

“No!  No, no!” Jimmy reached over, bending painfully across at least two bandages, and succeeded in grasping Thomas’s right hand.  The bedcovers fell down, revealing his bare chest.  "Not at all like I like you..." Jimmy's heart hammered in his chest.  He held Thomas’s hand and closed his eyes.   “I didn’t mean it like that at all... I meant... I always thought that... If I meet the right girl, go far enough with her, I'll feel what I always dreamed I'd feel... but it never changed a thing.  That’s why I was so keen on Ivy.  She seemed like the right girl.  When I was at the war... I felt things for... other boys that I never felt for..."

"Jimmy, are you all right?" Thomas asked.  "You're crying."

"Thing is, Thomas, I..." He laughed. "I always knew something was different about me but... if I never said it... maybe it warn't true."  His eyes stung.

"If you want to take it back," Thomas said earnestly, his eyes once more fixed hard on Jimmy's. "You can.  You're in shock, you don't know what you're saying..."

Jimmy shook his head.  “I don't.  Because I've been in love, now, and I know it's... worth the risk.  When I'm with a man I love... I feel like I’m on fire, like I’m floating in the stars."

“The men you've loved are lucky."

Jimmy felt like the breath had been knocked from his lungs.  "Youshouldknowyou’reoneofthem.”


	4. Wish Me Luck

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hope takes courage.

Thomas Barrow was furious. His hands curled into fists by his sides and his nails left small red moons on his palms. 

He stood up – he had to stand, he couldn’t sit by Jimmy with the boy looking at him like he’d meant his words. He spread his hands wide on the windowsill that looked out on Clarkson’s small yard. The sky through the trees glowed milky grey with the dawn.

Goddamn Jimmy. Of all things to deliriously mutter: “You should know, you’re one of them... one of the men I've loved." Jimmy must know, even in his tired, blood-spattered state, that he’s got Thomas dangling on the end of a string. He must know.

This was so much worse than his constant flirting, his twinkling eyes and clever innuendos. Those gave promises of sex that Jimmy never meant to keep. This was going and getting himself beat to a pulp and then promising true love. On blustery nights, when Thomas felt most alone and began to think of all the people who had ever left him behind, his thoughts did not turn to Jimmy’s silky hair and smooth, smooth hard body in search of comfort. Instead he imagined he were kissing Jimmy’s hand and hearing the words “I love you.” 

Jimmy couldn’t have meant what he said. Thomas had to believe he hadn’t meant a word. He couldn’t take such promises seriously. Like when Bates had pinned him to the wall in the servants’ quarters, and threatened him if he did not leave William alone. Not believing the words, that’s what brought a sly smile to Thomas’s face. He had been terrified, truly terrified of that big, hulking man who could likely have killed Thomas right there, snapped his pale neck if he had no fear of the law. But Thomas looked away from the powerful grasp of those meaty hands and told himself that Mr. John Bates couldn’t mean what he had just said.

That’s all Thomas needed now. Jimmy’s delirious words would fade into the bright, crisp day that was dawning, and he would soon forget this madness. Thomas never would.

Thomas picked up the roll of cotton gauze Clarkson left on the side table and measured a length. “If you’re done with what you wanted to say, Jimmy – ”

“Did you hear me, Thomas?”

“I heard you clearly.” He cut the fabric and loved the sharp sound of the scissors through Jimmy’s words.

“Because I said - ”

“I heard you clearly Jimmy,” Thomas’s breath caught in his throat. “Please don’t mock me,” he begged, hating the desperate edge to his words.

“I’m. Not. Mocking. You.” Jimmy hissed. And as if it closed the argument, he took the roll of gauze from Thomas’ fingers, placed it in his mouth, and crossed his arms. “Ow!”

Thomas laughed at the look of annoyance on Jimmy’s face, and his anger evaporated. No damage had been done. If he left now, he would be safe from too much hope, the thing that killed dreams when it proved false. “You look well enough, and if you don’t mind, I need to catch up on much-earned sleep back at the Abbey.”

“Sowwy fo dat.”

“Apology accepted,” Thomas gave a tough, suave grin and picked up his hat.

At the door, he looked back. Jimmy was wiping at his face and chest, smearing red everywhere. When he’d insisted on being an ass and talking without any cotton in his mouth, blood had dripped off his chin and run down his chest. The mess had been small before Jimmy began to wipe at it.

Thomas sighed and shut the door. “Stop that, stupid,” he said and sat down on the bed, closer to Jimmy this time. “You’re making it worse.” 

Jimmy pouted and wiped his hands clean on a spare, soggy rag. “I wash twying to hepp.”  
“I know you were.” Thomas dipped a clean cloth into the bowl of cold water at Jimmy’s bedside. “May I?”

Jimmy nodded, and Thomas pressed the cloth to Jimmy’s lips. “Here. Th-that’s better." His lips felt tender under Thomas’s fingers, and they emerged pink as the flowers on the walls. “You got it everywhere,” Thomas muttered as he ran the cloth down Jimmy’s battered and bandaged chest. “Nothing to be done about the covers now.” He rang out the cloth, turning the water pink.

Thomas stood to leave again, fingers still tingling with the sensation of tracing Jimmy’s body, but Jimmy caught Thomas’s hand and began to kiss Thomas's fingers, one by one.

“Jimmy, what are you doing?” Jimmy said nothing in reply. “Jimmy, please stop.” He didn’t, and Thomas’s heart started to race and the space between his legs tingled. “Jimmy, stop it now!” He barked. “I want you to stop.”

Jimmy’s eyes widened and he let go of Thomas’s hand.

Thomas towered over Jimmy and stared down at him with all the anger he could muster.

“Jimmy Kent, if this is some kind of joke – and I won’t deny a man a good joke – please tell me now. You’ve got me, you’ve won, now let it go. We still have to work together, supposing Carson doesn’t sack for your silliness. This night you did one stupid thing, you can’t afford a second... and...” Thomas leaned closer, the picture of evil intimidation, but when he met Jimmy’s eyes, red and puffy from crying, his façade crumbled. “...and I can’t lose you again, can’t think I’ve won you and lose you again... or I don’t know what I’ll do, Jimmy. Please.”

Those puffy eyes blinked once before the soft smile he reserved for Thomas wrinkled them. “You never lost me.” He reached out and ran one hand through Thomas’s hair. His fingers settled on the back of Thomas’s neck and pulled him close.

“Y-yes b-but... Jimmy, what I did to you was wrong, very wrong.”

“We cannot judge ouwsewves by ouw mishtakes, Thomush,” Jimmy rolled his eyes. “If we can, I’m fucked.”

Thomas laughed a little, but his voice still shook. “M-me too.”

“I can’t kish you like dish. I want to.” Jimmy blushed. 

Thomas brought his hand to Jimmy’s cheek, then he kissed his brow, his cheeks, his nose, his jaw, and finally, gently, his lips. “I love you, Jimmy Kent. I always have.”

Jimmy laced his fingers together with Thomas’s. He looked as though he were about to cry again. “I... I don know what love ish like, but I wan to find out... wiff you. Could you shtay wiff me today?”

“I’d stay with you forever if you asked.”

“Carefuw. One of dese days, I might,” Jimmy winked.

They both jumped at the creak of the guestroom door. Thomas climbed off of Jimmy and raced into the hall to see Daisy disappearing out Clarkson’s front door. Panic like lead settled in Thomas’s stomach. This was it: Daisy would have been scandalized more than anyone else who’d found out about him, and worst of all, Jimmy would suffer for it.

“Jimmy, I have to catch up with her. I’ll be back in a minute, promise,” Thomas blew him a kiss and watched Jimmy blush at that before running after Daisy.

He found her waiting for the motorbus not far from Clarkson’s house. She was sitting on a bench alone, wrapped in her warmest coat, a large suitcase by her side.

“Daisy?”

“Good mornin’, Thomas.” He studied her face, searching for disgust, for horror, for any angry determination, but found none. She must have seen the desperation on his face, because she shook her head. “I didn’t mean to see nothin’. Just came to say goodbye.”

“Oh,” Thomas caught his breath. He found he was craving a cigarette and fished in his pockets for his case and lighter. “What’s the bag for?”

“I’m leavin’.”

“For Mr. Mason’s farm? Tell him hello from all of us. When are you comin’ back?”

“Never,” Daisy said.

“What?” He paused before lighting up.

“I’m leavin’ for good, Thomas. I’m never comin’ back.” There was an anger in her words he hadn’t heard before.

“What?”

“Has lyin’ down with Jimmy turned you daft, Thomas?” She crossed her arms in annoyance and looked away from him.

“That’s Mr. Barrow to you,” he whined. “No it hasn’t turned me daft, Daisy.” He lit his cigarette and leaned against the stone wall, all nonchalance.

She said nothing for what felt like a long while, and it didn’t take long for Thomas to wonder why. If she weren’t scandalized by the sight of him and Jimmy wrapped up in each other... perhaps, for once, Thomas had something that was to be envied. And if the sad, aging melodrama villain finds love before the lovely kitchen maid, what does that make her?

“You mean never never?” he asked, gently as he could.

“Yes, I mean never never. I’m done with Downton. Aren’t you?” That last question sounded like the Daisy he knew, the Daisy who wanted to be loved and never hurt anyone.

“I used to be... used to be done with it,” another drag on the cigarette covered the fact that he had nothing more to say.

By the time the motorbus pulled up, Thomas’s cigarette was short enough to burn his fingers. Daisy handed her bag to the driver. “Tell the folks at the House goodbye for me.”

“You left without saying goodbye?” He had no idea why, but the thought made him sick to his stomach.

“I’m not walkin’ back now.”

“I’m not sayin’ you should... but... it doesn’t seem like you.”

“No it doesn’t, does it? Goodbye then, Thomas.”

“It’s brave,” he said, with no thought of where the words had come from. “Not that you’re not brave. You are...”

“You think so?”

He thought of her earlier that evening, knocking the cigarette from his hands in the servants’ hall, diving under the ropes at the boxing match, coming to say goodbye to him and Jimmy, to whom she owed nothing.

Without warning, he dropped his cigarette and threw his arms around her. “Thank you, Daisy,” his voice broke over the three simple words. After a moment of stillness, she held him back.

The motorbus driver honked his horn. “We gotta stay on schedule, miss.” 

They pulled apart, and Daisy climbed the stairs to the motorbus.

“Ya not scared?” Thomas called after her.

She smiled, a broad, hopeful smile that promised happiness. “Not anymore.” The doors closed behind her, and Thomas watched her go until the motorbus was a dot in the distance and the sun broke through the bare winter trees.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many, many thanks to everyone who has read this story from the start! As always, I’d love to hear your comments.


End file.
